Drunk on Stars
by faithxvalourxwisdom
Summary: "God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December." Life without him is my December, and Regulus Black is my rose.


Hello! This is my first attempt at fan-fiction writing and it's slightly intimidating, but I hope you like it and if you have the time I would really appreciate it if you left a review telling me what you thought of it.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters

**Drunk on Stars**

**_"He holds me in his big arms, drunk and I am seeing stars."_**

Those molten silver eyes are drawing me in like moths to a flame. A cursory glance is all it takes and here I am, completely, irrevocably and ineffably hooked.

He tries to speak but it's completely futile. He cannot say anything because it's indescribable. It's so effortless, like swimming - not in water - but in light, like floating in armfuls and armfuls of light. He puts his arms around my neck and closes the gap between us. Then he's kissing me so intensely and so fervently, that I'm heading skyward, soaring upwards into the stars.

I know that the phrase "love blossoms" is not meant to be taken literally, but right now it's pretty hard to discern between metaphorical imagery and the sheer ecstasy one kiss from him evokes.

Our lips soon break apart; succumbing to the need for oxygen. Yet we're still standing close enough to one another for me to feel the heat radiating from his rouge-tinted cheeks and hear the steady thudding of his heart that soothes me like a gentle lull of some unspoken melody. Soon the corners of my lips head skywards as his lips graze lightly against my lips.

I brush away the strand of hair that is falling gracefully into his eyes and look at him. I mean really look at him. I want to study him and commit it all to memory. Everything: the slight flush to his otherwise porcelain complexion as I run my fingers through his curtain of silky black curls, his sculptured jaw, his hollow cheekbones and his eyes. I have to remember his eyes, because next time I see them they will be obscured by the steel grey guise of a Death Eater's mask.

He reaches behind my neck, his dainty fingers tracing intricate circles which send shivers down my spine. His lips part slightly as if he is about to speak and my breath catches in my throat. I know what he is going to say.

"Please don't," I whisper.

"It's too hard."

He nods his head in silent submission and pecks me gently on the forehead. I can feel the tears begin to prickle and I hurriedly look away.

I can't hear those words. Love is meant to be the beginning, not the end. This is the end, and he knows it as much as I do.

"Please look at me," he murmurs.

His fingers gently caress my cheek as he tilts my face upwards so I am staring him straight in the eye. He delicately brushes away the tears and I see the beginnings of a smile etched into the contours of his mouth.

I wish we could stay like this forever. I wish the pendulum of the clock would jam. If time were to stop, tomorrow would never come and we could stay frozen like this forever; wrapped up in the light of each others' eyes.

The silence between us is overwhelming; like an incessant, cacophonous shriek that drowns out all other sounds. So how do I know time is passing, if I'm unable to hear it? If a second elapses and I don't hear it tick, is it really valid? I don't want it to be, I want to squirrel away and savour every second with him until the end, until tomorrow.

Tomorrow we leave Hogwarts and embark on the rest of our lives. Tomorrow we leave our sanctuary and are thrown into the harsh realities of war. Tomorrow we decide where our loyalties lie and when we do, there's no going back.

I don't know what will happen after tomorrow. I don't know when I will see him next. I just don't know.

All I know is what I want.

I want him.

"I should go."

Three words that jerk me out of my reverie and pierce the silence, dispersing the emptiness of my thoughts.

I can't speak. Instead I nod tentatively and for the last time he's kissing me so far into the sky I genuinely believe I could reach out and steal a star.

Then he breaks it off and the darkness is back.

"Goodbye, love."

"Goodbye doesn't even cover it. It's such an inadequate word," I pout.

He laughs shakily. "I know, but it's all we have."

He looks at me one last time, smiling sadly and then he's gone; disappearing into the darkness and it just becomes so unbearably hard not to be consumed with what we've lost, but to be enchanted by what we had.

I feel my legs buckle and wince slightly as they make contact with the compacted earth of the forest floor. The sea of emerald green encloses me as the statuesque trees stand completely still, exhibits in nature's museum, each leaf paralysed, unable to shed. This was where we would meet, lying on our backs, looking up at the sky. At twilight we'd watch as the sky erupted with colour; the crimson-coloured clouds bleeding copiously as the Great Lake below glittered under the luminous glow of the moonlight. At night, when the darkness threatened to cloak us in its midnight veil, we'd watch as little luminous flecks pierced the blackness; a sky drunk on stars.

I realise now how similar I am to that sky. I'm drunk on my very own star: my little prince. I'm unutterably intoxicated on him, and now he's gone.

We both knew it would end this way but it doesn't make it hurt any less, because who wants to know that the person you adore the most can just disappear forever?

I suppose this is why we have memories, because, as Jean Paul Sartre says: "God gave us our memories so that _we_ might _have roses in December."_

_Life without him is my December, and Regulus Black is my rose. _


End file.
